Category Archives: New Age

I was recently in California for a best friend’s wedding. She is the final woman in my college posse (a.k.a the WINOS), to stop having sex get married, and we thought it would be fitting for the five of us to have a girls day together, going to the spa and chilling out before the big day arrived.

A couple of weeks before the wedding I was on the spa’s website to check out which overpriced facial or massage I’d be signing up for, and I happened upon something in the brochure called the “Kuyam Experience”. Anything that has a noun or verb followed by “experience” or “adventure” is usually something one should pay close attention to. I learned this the hard way years ago and yet.

I think to save space they were as vague in the description of Kuyam as they could possibly be. It said something about doing a Native American ritual and clay and steam and inhalation therapy were involved or something and you could do it alone or in a ‘private party’. It was $75/person, which was about 50% less expensive than anything else they had to offer, so I mean, clearly the WINOS needed to consider this. It was the only thing we could all do together. Now, we aren’t very touchy-feely, kissy- huggy, or grab-each-other’s-boobs-and-asses kind of bunch. We keep our hands to ourselves, our clothes on and we enjoy drinking a shit ton of wine together and laughing. Sometimes we discuss the sex we aren’t having since we bore our litters, but mostly we debate important things we’ve read in trade journals such as “Us Weekly” and “O”. So something so new-agey was a laugh-fest just waiting to happen. This experience would provide a host of future inside jokes and the timing couldn’t be better. Our friend was about to get knocked up married — this would get rid of any edge she might be feeling. It would be like therapy. Fun therapy. I loved thinking about how great it would be. Almost as great as dressing my 13 month old like this for Halloween. (Note to reader: Halloween 2011 comes round only once. You can never get it back. And Mr. T pities the fool who waits till 2012.)

So anyway, I book the thing and we all fly to California for the wedding weekend and the first day is the big spa day. Over breakfast, we had a long debate about whether or not we’re all supposed to wear bathing suits to this thing or not and then someone joked that we might all have to get naked and rub clay on one another. Yeah, right. Like we’d spend the day before our friend gets married having a Native American orgy/porn sleep over party. That is the last thing that the Kuyam Experience is about. I mean, if that was what it was, wouldn’t consuming massive amounts of alcohol and peyote be part of it too?

I assured the group that was is not what Kuyam was, as if I had any idea what it actually was. A little voice in my gut screamed, “Shit – what if it is?!” If it were, which it is not, it would take our friendship to a level of excruciating awkwardness that we might never be able to overcome. Like when Michael Jackson and Lisa Marie kissed that one time. Ugh. That just sent shivers up my spine. I am so sorry to have to have had to bring that into your consciousness, but I’m telling you, it’s a worthy comparison.

So, I love the WINOS with all of my heart, but I like them fully clothed. I’ll be damned if I’m paying $75 to feel relaxed as my naked best friends rub fucking mud all over my pasty naked muffin top. I laughed then, because us all getting naked together in a room while we spread mud on ourselves is the most ridiculous thing that could happen to the WINOS. I mean, probably the Kuyam was something where we’ll probably be in…robes…and the clay is probably for us to put on…our faces…or something. I think we’re just supposed to sit there and meditate and listen to the Native American chanting. None of this weird naked group rubbing shit. That would be crazy.

So we check in to the spa and we didn’t need bathing suits – they give us those little wrappy things to put around yourself that cover your boobs and your ass. Which I take as a good sign. Things are on track. But a red flag shoots up when I notice that the other spa patrons in the locker room seem to be wandering around naked and carrying on their business like they weren’t. Here’s the thing: I like the spa as much as anyone, but I do not find it necessary to prance around the locker room completely naked, bending over to blow dry my hair as I start up a conversation with a random naked stranger vigorously rubbing her ass with lotion, and act as though we were both dressed and discussing the weather at the grocery store. Apparently in Ojai California, that is exactly what people think the spa is for. This is why I live in Chicago. We don’t play that way.

But whatever. I’m not in Chicago. I am relaxing at a spa in California. I decided to spend as little time as possible in the nudist colony locker room and waited until they led the five of us up to our private Kuyam Experience. Now, here is the thing: where I am from, “private” means that just the group you signed up with will be present. I thought this was a pretty universal interpretation, but I clearly know nothing about California. Apparently, in California, a “private” Kuyam Experience means you, your friends and three other strange naked ladies you don’t know who appear to be close to million years old, and really creep you the fuck out. That was a little “cultural difference” that would have been nice to know when I thought this was a good idea.

The room was really a big sauna, so it was super hot in there. I wasn’t sure if it was the heat that made me want to pass out, or the random old naked chicks. We took the other five seats that were left and they provided us all with a small, cold face towel. I noticed that most of the WINOS immediately covered their faces. Probably to cover up their shock, terror and tears. Maybe I’m projecting. That is exactly what I had to do. I had unknowingly led our group to our first orgy and it was going to be with octogenarian strangers. Thank God we didn’t bring the camera.

So the Kuyam Experience begins. The spa lady tells us to relax and listen while she plays a recording of a Native American man talking so it seems all spiritual. He starts off by saying that “Kuyam is best done while naked….” and I’m like, “Really pervert? Shit. We’re on some amateur porn site right now, aren’t we? This is why it was so cheap. Mother fucker.” So now there is all this pressure to take off our spa wraps and get naked and my worst fears are all coming true.

I’m sure the WINOS look awesome naked, butI like my friends best when their cooches are tucked away out of my direct line of sight. So I began a silent prayer: “Dear God, please don’t make me look at my friends’ coochies. Amen.”

We’re then instructed to start rubbing the three colors of clay they gave us on every square inch of our naked selves. But as I’ve said, I am not getting naked. Even if I weren’t so immature about being naked with all my best friends, there were very practical reasons for my unwillingness to just throw off my wrap. I haven’t had a wax since before my first kid was born. It’s like giving somebody 5 minutes notice that they are supposed to host a garden party on wild prairie land. I hope that is all the explaining I need to do on this topic. So I vow to leave my wrap thing on and I’m trying to rub the shit all over like he is saying, but it’s hard to do with one hand trying to hold up my little wrappy thing so that my cooch is covered and no nip is hanging out.

While I’m struggling to maintain my dignity (and heterosexuality), one of the old ladies stands up and goes over to the other lady across from her who I then realize is not old. She is probably our age, but her hands and feet are all (congenitally?) deformed so this is not an easy task for her. I’m not going to lie, this also raises the weirdness factor. And then I realize this is a mother-daughter duo. SHUT. UP. I am trying not to watch this, but the naked mother and daughter are now standing up, rubbing each other with the clay and one of them has her ass in my friend’s face. And then she turns around and suddenly there are coochies at eye level. Somebody tipped them off about the Kuyam because they had fresh Brazilians. “Aww fuck. Seriously? Do I really have to watch these two baldies rub each other down?” No. I threw the towel over my face and tried to stay conscious so I wouldn’t drop my own wrap and scar my friends for life.

I closed my eyes and tried to focus on not hyperventilating. Well, and getting the fucking clay on my ass where it was supposed to go without getting naked because I wasn’t completely sure the mother / daughter duo wasn’t going to ask for my damn help. I was grateful that the other WINOS decided to fight the good fight and keep their hands and vaginas to themselves.

I’m not really sure what happened next. Maybe I did actually lose consciousness. Or maybe I had a psychotic break and now instead of having just one alter ego, I have another. I just don’t remember anything else until I heard the spa lady saying we could leave. But I had fucking dry clay all over my body, my wrap, my face towel. They told us there were showers in the next room. I scurried to get up and out of there. But they forgot to mention that you have to walk past a chamber where hoses come out of the walls and spray you the length of your body. You sort of have to be naked for this part. FUUUUUCK.

All of that work and it came down to this. You know what? Fuck it. I dropped the wrap, ran through the hoses and found a shower stall. The water was heavenly warm. I got the shit off of me. A robe was waiting for me outside. I snuggled into it, quickly left the shower room and tea and private balcony awaited. Minutes later, all eight of us lounged in our robes in the warm California air talking about “US Weekly” and “O” as if we hadn’t just lost our faith in God.

Maybe one day the WINOS will talk about Kuyam together again, but I think for now we’ll just leave that for our therapists.

There was probably not a person I came into contact with the week before my reading that I did not regale with the story about my weekend plans with my new psychic. I was STOKED for this life experience. I mean, this woman claims to talk to dead people. Like that spooky white kid in the movie. And John Edward on “Crossing Over”. Best. Show. Ever.

Plus, in order to see The Rev (she is a reverend, apparently, though it is unclear for what sort of church), you have to be referred by somebody she has read before and you have to take an orientation class before you get there. So I feel like I’m kind of in this super special club.

But the ‘orientation’ was pretty ghetto: it’s a number you call and then you listen to this 30 minute voice mail which just sort of ends abruptly while she is mid-sentence. Apparently she spared no expense for orientation. But whatever – it went over what she does and how she does it so you don’t waste time asking her about it when you’re there. I’m all about efficiency, so sounded good to me. Here were the main points:

Dead people talk to her. Dead people who know you. And watch you.

Dead people don’t give a fuck about time, so whatever they tell her could have happened already or maybe it’s happening now or maybe it will happen in the future (which comes in handy, doesn’t it?).

If the dead people tell her any details about your death or that you have cancer or something, she is going to keep that to herself. She will not tell you anything that could be traumatizing. In my case, she also will not tell me when/if Oprah is going to die – for obvious reasons.

The dead speak to her in a way she processes visually – so she doesn’t hear them, but they “show” her things. When they are trying to say a name, they spell it, but they spell slowly, so she is going to take liberties and if they show her say, “M”, she is going to say “Michael”, “Matthew”, “Mark”….until either you say you know what she is talking about or the dead person spells the damn name.

They also show her pictures, so they could be metaphors for something or literally that thing. So sometimes she gets weird stuff and she’ll let you know because they may be an inside joke that you’d get but she wouldn’t. She says she often has to do some translating.

If she tells you about something and you don’t “acknowledge” it, by telling her you know what she is talking about, she can’t move on. The dead require your acknowledgment before they will continue playing Pictionary with her.

She says that whatever they are telling her are things that you can change, so if she warns you not to drunk dial your ex and you do, she totally called it and she wins. If you don’t because of her advice, she totally helped you avoid a bad situation and she wins. You see how this works?

If you’re a minute late, fuck you – she starts the clock precisely when your appointment starts, whether your ass is there or not, and you’re paying for the whole thing. She takes cash money. No pay pal. No plastic.

Okay, so those were the ground rules. Oh yeah, and something about not drinking within 24 hours of the reading because your energy will suck. I conveniently forgot about that part because depriving my body of its nightly wine break is some crazy shit that I’m not going to dabble in, even if the psychic says.

The Rev lives in the middle of fucking nowhere, so it took what seemed like a million years to get there (so like, 90 minutes) and apparently the address she uses doesn’t show up on Google Maps right, so good luck finding the fucking place. Needless to say, we were 4 minutes late and I was scheduled first. She wasn’t kidding. Clock was ticking when I walked in.

She does this is a shrink’s office who wasn’t working. It was a weird set up, where she just kind of tapes her name on the door when he isn’t around. But I was a little relieved I wasn’t in her house because what are the odds she doesn’t own 54 cats? I’m allergic to those mean mother fuckers, and plus I was expecting the lady from Poltergeist to answer the door and tell me to go into the light in her bedroom closet and I probably would have and then I’d probably get molested by zombies and while I’m open to new experiences, zombie molestation does not top the list.

But whatever. So The Rev? She was probably in her late 40s, had hair from the 80s (feathered) and she was wearing a purple muu muu. She reminded me of my music teacher when I was in elementary school, in the 80s (go figure). Also a cat person, no doubt. And she was about to tell me everything I wanted to know about my future but was afraid to ask. The dead people were going to help out too. So the first thing that happens is that she gives me a flyer for a “healing” she was going to do next month and wanted to let me know about it.

The fuck? I’m not paying you to tell me about your upcoming jamboree and I’m four fucking minutes late, so I want to speak to my dead people NOW. Perhaps she picked up on my negative energy, or maybe she got the message when I crumpled the paper and my sweaty palms, but we moved on quickly from there.

She asked me to stand up and hold her hands. I complied. She said the “Our Father” and invited me to join her. I opted out because I was pretty sure this is exactly how it all started with the priests for the poor bastards who had to be altar boys in the 1970s. Nothankyouverymuch.

She finishes with some gobbledy gook about love and peace and energy and I took some deep breaths and my annoying Type A ass kind of chilled out for a minute. She let go of my hands and we sat down and here is what she told me in a nutshell and in this order:

I’m going to do something to my left ankle or shin that hurts like a bitch. (Can’t wait!)

My beloved grandma was coming through (She is the only dead person I really give much thought to. I named my daughter after her. I love that woman).

Apparently she was with my uncle, who is coming through as a “spirit baby”, meaning this uncle was miscarried or died as a child. (Grams had four sons and miscarried her fifth child. Goosebumps.)

She asked me who “B” was. I didn’t know. She offered Bob and Bill. Bill is my grandpa. (While she was alive they were exactly like McAdams and Gosling in The Notebook. I mean, they loved each other as much as Lady Gaga loves copying Madonna.) So Grams first wanted to acknowledge my Gramps, who still cries about her 7 years after we lost her. Aww…

Apparently we went from that to talking about some sort of eye infection that a opthamologist will have to intervene in. It was unclear whether this was about me or about him.

Then a bunch of other spirit babies showed up. She insisted my mom lost a baby and my ‘sister’ was there. I was like “Wha? No.” and then I remembered: Shit. My mom did lose a baby when she was preggers with my actual sister. She tells me that my spirit sister plays with my children. Oh. Wait, what? Weird.

She says that there is another spirit baby who is my nephew. He wants to be acknowledged. Who knew there were so many baby spirits that weren’t born? (At this point I’m like, do we really need to talk about every baby in my family that wasn’t born? This is depressing).

So then she says who is [my dog’s A name], [another A name], [my son’s A name]? She was doing the name thing where she just starts guessing names because she sees an “AN” (in this case). My son’s name was third. I acknowledged it. She told me he is a handful and a daredevil (he is) and that I need to keep him safe by ensuring he wears helmets and pads when he goes outside. She says she sees Evel Kenevil – but then quickly tells me she isn’t call him “evil” – it’s the motorcycle guy. Yes. I know. She advises me to try to wear him out because he’ll just get himself into danger. WAIT. What? Is he in danger, I ask. No. The dead people are just saying he is crazy is all. Um, okay?

Then she says who is [S Name], [S Name],[My other son’s name]? Whoa. She is pretty good. I acknowledged and she moved on.

She says I have another child. I acknowledge she is correct. Okay, I’m getting [MA name], [MA name], [MA name that is the male version of my daughter’s name]. Are you shitting me? I acknowledge my daughter. She moves on.

She starts laughing and says “I don’t know why they’re showing me this…but you’ll be a grandmother to twins. I usually don’t get things that far out, but congratulations.” I said I hoped they were really far out. She said oh yeah – 18 or 20 years. Okay…

Then she says, who is [initial of my husband & my mom]? I waited. She said [name], [BD’s name]…and it was like, holy shit. Seriously? I acknowleged my husband. She said his deceased grandfather was there and was showing her a fish which could mean they liked to fish, or it was Pisces or a cholesterol issue. Really?

So I offer that BD sometimes has cholesterol readings that are high. She latches. Tells me that I have to intervene to save his heart and then she starts going through her purse and finally pulls out this massive pack of vitamins (I shit you not) and tells me all the vitamins (CoQ10, Garlic, Fish Oil, etc.) I should force my husband to take so he doesn’t make me a widow too early. What? Then she starts talking about her own husband who eats too much fast food and how she threatened to leave him if he didn’t change his ways. Wait. Isn’t this reading about me? ME. Lets come back to ME and MY life. But so then she tells me to write down a website where I can get really high quality vitamins for him. WHAAAT? Does she own stock in a GNC on the side for Christ’s sake? And is BD okay? I mean, should I be worried? I’m feeling a little traumatized here.

She says “your heart is fine (and it is), but you need to get more fiber. Your issues are in your intestines and colon. Eat 30/35g of fiber a day. I like to have yogurt with Fiber One on top each morning”. Again, TMI. I don’t give a fuck what you had for breakfast.

I’m usually not this bitchy, but I’m all wound up now.

She says time is up, but I can ask a question. I ask about my career. She correctly guesses I’m in sales and tells me my job is too stressful and doesn’t pay enough. She tells me to update my resume and get out of dodge before I get a pink slip. Problem is, I just got a new job. One I’m definitely enjoying. For once. I mean, hopefully with this whole “time doesn’t matter” thing, she meant my last job? Then she advises me not to take the first job that comes along because it will look really good to begin with, but they’ll make me a “work horse and slave”. Fuck. Did I really get the wrong damn job again? She did say if I wait for the right thing, I’ll get a low stress, more money position. But you know what? She was supposed to tell me to get the fuck out of corporate America because I have an awesome future doing stuff I love. But she didn’t. So it ended on a downer.

So there I am, left to figure out what the hell just happened for the last 26 minutes. I felt a little lightheaded and creeped out.

I mean, she named my children! And she guessed the first name of my grandpa, and my husband. And it wasn’t like at other times she was naming names I didn’t know. I mean, all of them she was right on with within three names. How could she know their names? And all the miscarriages and baby spirits and stuff? That is fucked up.

So then all the stuff she said has me all worried about my son and his dare-devil behavior because I’ve always had the sense I had to worry about him since they laid him in my arms after birth, so that was kind of a sore spot for me. And then whether my husband is going to have a heart attack or something. The grandfather who allegedly came through died young of a massive heart attack. I mean, what did that all mean?

So the Rev got under my skin a little. All the fun and games of yesteryear suddenly weren’t so fun. Even if she was guessing, she guessed right a lot about the things I can verify. As for the things I cannot so far, time will tell. I’m just waiting until I break my ankle and if/when that happens, if you want to talk to dead people, I’ve got just the person for you…

This January I found myself back in the place I have perpetually been throughout my life, which is wandering around aimlessly, wondering what the hell I’m doing with my life and how I got to the place where I am and how that place where I am always feels like a place I’d like to leave – immediately.

You know why I love Oprah? Its not because of her fabulous hair or because everybody is afraid of her or because she gets to hang out with Obama all the time. It’s because she doesn’t go two weeks on her show without doing a story about somebody who was nobody until they got inspired one day and then changed the world. I live for those stories. Without believing in those stories I would have no hope that one day my life will abruptly and powerfully change and my angel will come to me and say “Love, lets do this. 3-6-34-51-52 and the Powerball is 22. I’ll let you know what God wants you to do with it, but in the meantime, why don’t you just go ahead and buy a beach house in Zihuatanejo, kay? You can run your new philanthropic foundation from there”. I mean, Oprah has me convinced that one day I’ll be minding my own business and ordering my Value Meal #2 at McDonalds and suddenly the heavens will open up and I’ll just “know” that the cook in the back is a genius orphan who is homeless and just needs a chance and I’ll adopt her and she’ll grow up to be the President and I’ll get to live in the White House and she’ll make me ambassador to Tahiti and life will be totally sweet because of my awesome inspiration to take her home with me on that fateful day I was quenching my insatiable hunger for a Quarter Pounder with cheese. I could tell you about a million other scenarios I’ve feasted my mind on, but you get the point. Nobody loves stories more than I do about ordinary people doing extraordinary things that make this world a cooler place to be because if I’m being honest, I really believe that one day I’ll get to be one of them. When I hear those stories I don’t think, “Oh, thats really neat.” I think, “When is it going to be my turn?”

Which makes me really a different sort of person than the people I find myself surrounded by most of the time. I know this because I’ve taken every damn personality and motivation and self-discovery test this world has to offer in an attempt to find out why it seems like I can’t find anybody like me out there in the world. And usually my results break the computer or they come back but it says something like, “ERROR- value unknown” or “Only 1% of the population is this type…” and when you read the description of a person that would get this score, it is usually brief because it commands a total loss for words to describe. I think the issue is two-fold: only three people have ever scored this combination and those three people are too strange to really describe. When you look at professions that are good for my personality type, you wind up with stuff like unicycle rider, psychic, manic-depressive and homeless. What you don’t get is ‘efficient little cog in big corporate machine’, which is what I am, except for the efficient part.

On the other hand, the fact that there are a few people out there – that it is humanly possible to meet someone like me – gives me a lot of comfort. There are so many days when I look around at the people I work with, or the parents at my kids’ school, or my neighbors, or whatever group and just think, “am I the only one thinking…(x,y,z)?” and I’m pretty sure I am. And after awhile you start to feel weird and lonely because people look at you really funny when you tell them what you’re thinking. So I’ve learned to self-edit, especially when at work. It is very unbecoming for a professional salesperson to say she could care less about the money and sometimes she tells her clients not to buy stuff from her, because she knows her competitor has a better widget. These things are completely foreign concepts in the circles I travel in and they would likely get me fired or at least demoted. Some days I fantasize about getting fired. But then I cry inside knowing that if that happened, the bond between me and my favorite fabulous gay salesman Leonardo at Banana Republic might be broken forever.

So back in January I decided that I either had to go into therapy or get a life coach or I might go insane because I was born to change the world and so far all I’ve done is changed careers four times. And a lot of dirty diapers.

I thought if I went into therapy there was a good chance I might never get out, so I thought it was safest to try a life coach first. So I began the search for a life coach to tell me what I am supposed to do with my life and why I always feel like a fish out of water wherever I go. You want to have a fun couple of weeks? Interview some life coaches. Ones you find on the Internet and not through a referral because of course, you don’t associate with anybody who doesn’t double over laughing in amusement by the whole concept.

But it was awesome. Wow. Some life coaches have PhDs, or some sort of relevant training and some life coaches have an extra phone line and illusions of grandeur. And honestly, a lot of the times you can’t tell which is which by talking to them. Some are really great and some are train wrecks. But, to their credit, they are amusing train wrecks. Like the guy who I was interviewing that talked to me for a half hour about why he thinks his second wife left him. I had to interrupt him, “Hey, could I offer you some coaching? She just not that into you.” After that moment of genius, it got me thinking that maybe I should be a life coach. I mean, if all you have to do to be a life coach is give people advice and help them solve their problems, then sign me up. I clearly don’t have a great grasp of the world, but I know about people. I can read people. And like I said, my personality books tell me I’m well-suited to be a psychic as well. So who wouldn’t want a psychic life coach? But, I’m an intellectual snob and as such, I can’t get behind waking up one day and calling myself a life coach. So that is a whole other fun story, but the point is, I actually found a coaching situation in February and signed up for a year and it has, much to my delight and surprise, actually changed my life.

That said, the meaning of life hasn’t presented itself. And I’m still working for The Man. And a few months into it I was still feeling pretty alientated from the world. My coach recommended that I do stuff that comes naturally to me, take inspired actions and go find my tribe. She suggested that perhaps people in my tribe don’t hang out at my corporate entity. Perhaps if I were really living the life I was born to live, it wouldn’t be as a corporate drone at a Fortune 100 company. It would be me, doing something else, surrounded by other people that teach and inspire and make me laugh everyday.

A concept I hadn’t thought of. One I wasn’t sure existed.

So what did I do after my third glass of wine one night? I started this blog. People in real life laugh at my stories. And it turns out that when I’m at my best, I’m entertaining people with my stories, but they aren’t always of the ilk that are appreciated around the water cooler at work, or at dinner parties with parents from my kid’s school. So I decided to hell with it – what if I just wrote all my stories down and didn’t worry about what my coworkers or family or the world in general thought about it, and then maybe my tribe would find me. Maybe people who “get” me will enjoy what I write, and start reading it and I will have a community of people who I can entertain and who I “get” and who will teach and inspire and motivate me to be great.

And here you are.

Thank you for reading my blog. Thank you for commenting on it. Thank you for following me. Thank you for writing your own blogs that are real. That teach and inspire and make me snort Diet Coke out my nose laughing and unable to read the screen through eyes full of tears. I think the vast majority of you know exactly what it’s like to need to blog as an outlet and tell your stories and write down your thoughts and be validated by other people. So we’ve found one another. Our tribe. Lets keep blogging, keep reading about each other, keep commenting and validating one another and maybe we can keep each other from going postal or owning too many cats. Maybe we can be great together.

Yes. I have a new mom BFF. I have to change my Facebook status immediately. Just in case there are other moms out there who want to stalk me — they need to know I’m taken. I am a highly faithful BFF once I fall in love and I’m just not sure I could handle the responsibility of another. I guess this is why the Universe hasn’t delivered me Oprah yet.

Okay, so in case you haven’t read about my Mom Crush with Kirsten, either Part I, Part II, Part III, Finale or Part IV: The Revival, you probably have no idea how weird I am. Basically, I had a random phone conversation with a woman back in 2005 that I decided was the coolest woman/mom I ever never personally met. So I went about the business of making her my best friend because I tend to stalk be obsessive about things/people that I must have. We had a few starts and stops. And it never came to fruition. And then I wrote about it on the blog and then I got all nostalgic because I remembered again how she and I were as destined to be together as me and Oprah. So then against my better judgment I emailed her out of the blue a few weeks ago to have lunch with me.

That sounds really psycho, but I swear that people who know me don’t think I’m psycho at all. Probably not even eccentric. I don’t think. But I guess if they knew this story they might want to reconsider. I’m just focused, is all. Despite my ADD. Hmm.

Okay, so when I sent Kirsten the email out of the blue, she enthusiastically replied that she’d love to get lunch again. I was a little dumbfounded by this. I was kind of expecting her to be afraid. Very afraid. I think it is probably quite normal for people being stalked to be a little creeped out by the process. But apparently she didn’t see my random overtures as stalker-like (I asked). She has a kind heart and I guess when her own mom crush called again out of the blue, it was sheer excitement on her end. Which is exactly why she and I are awesome together.

So we schedule a lunch date, and then much to my chagrin, one of my dumb clients wants to have a meeting that day, and since my job kind of pays for my mortgage, I had to ask to reschedule. So we do. And then the day that we’ve rescheduled, Kirsten emails and said something came up at work, and she needs to reschedule but she added that she “totally wants to get together”. So then we reschedule again. Okay, so THEN I have another, rather important, client lunch get scheduled for day that Kirsten and I rescheduled our lunch for the second time. I’m thinking that if I ask to move lunch AGAIN, then this thing is DOA. We haven’t talked in two years — at some point you have to figure it isn’t worth it. SO…I ditched my client. Seriously. I just told one of my teammates I was double booked with something really important and I couldn’t make lunch. Which was true. I don’t lie. But I guess I omitted that I had a mom crush that had to be explored and I just could not bear to wait one more day. I’ll admit I was feeling kind of bad about it, probably the way that an alcoholic feels bad when they miss their kid’s recital, but then God blessed my decision, because the client wound up blowing off that lunch anyway. I think he may have his own Kirsten.

Okay, so we met at the same place we had lunch on our first real date. And from the first second to the last we just talked as naturally as if we’d been friends for years. Perhaps I should go back to do another past life regression because I think maybe Kirsten and I were identical twins in one of our lives (Shut up. Oprah and Dr. Oz said to do it. And when they talk, you listen). All I’m saying is that if there were such a thing as the Newlywed game for Newlyfriends, we would take first. fucking. place. And I know what it takes — I’ve never lost the Newlywed game (a post for another day). So when Kirsten and I inevitably take our families on a joint Disney cruise together, it’s on. ON.

But I’ve got to set some expectations going forward. I started writing about Kirsten here thinking I would likely never see nor talk to her again, I had no problems telling the Internet about all the weird stuff I did to try to make this random person my friend, because if I’m good at anything, it’s telling self-deprecating stories about the retarded, socially incoherent things I do on a pretty regular basis. But now it occurs to me that since she is a real-live person who I am now involved in a real-live relationship with, I am going to pee my pants with joy need to be really sensitive to what I write here. I’m finding out that Oprah is right about this whole Law of Attraction thing. Because everything I write about on this blog that I want to happen, winds up happening. Well, except for the parts about my sleeping with the President or being invited to Oprah, but I’m patient. Lets not rule out either at this point.

Okay, but I must reveal one part of our reunion conversation because it is such a completely and totally bizarre coincidence, lending still further proof that we were meant to be together. Listen to this: So we’re discussing the politics at our boys’ schools and about how every class has one or a few moms that are constantly there. They make it their business to be the alpha mom and in charge of everything and as a result, their kid is automatically the favorite by teachers and kids alike and treated better than all the rest of the kids (no judgment here alpha moms – it just is what it is). And it is important to note that the alpha moms always have daughters in the class. I don’t know why boys’ mothers don’t seem to give a rat’s ass about the classroom politics, but girls’ mothers – watch out for the cage fighting. We noted how fortunate we felt to be mothers of boys. If we had girls, they would probably not survive, since we would be reviled by the alpha moms for not doing our part (i.e. doing exactly what they tell us to), which is how we started talking about our own experiences when we were in school.

I told her about how my mom worked full-time and wasn’t really that involved in the school politics and was totally oblivious to the way the social strata at school all worked. And this disturbed the alpha moms in my class, and because (of course) they ran Brownies, I wound up getting kicked out of Brownies. Yeah. Seriously. The alpha-moms booted my little 7 year old ass out of Brownies because my mom worked and couldn’t come to the meetings and run a craft for the week she was assigned. (FYI – I sold more cookies than all those bitches, so it was personal). So then Kirsten gasps and says “I was kicked out of Brownies for the same reason! Well, kind of. They wouldn’t even let me join because my mom worked and couldn’t do the craft!” Then we kind of looked at each other like, “No fucking way!” But it gets even better. So then she tells me that her mom felt so bad about the whole debacle with the alpha moms that she signed them up for 4-H (which meets evenings, and is friend to the working mom). At which point I spit out my Diet Coke all over the table and I screamed, “Whaaaaaaaaat!?” Holy shit. That is exactly what my mother did to cope with my banishment from Brownies. She signed us up for 4-H and I was in that damn club until high school. I mean, how insane is that coincidence? And it wasn’t like 4-H was a popular past time in my little hamlet. I didn’t know a single person from school that was in 4-H and I did my best to hide my affiliation with it. Same with Kirsten. But she learned to bake and I learned to cross-stitch. Looking back, I should have learned to bake or raise hogs, or something that would be semi-useful. But alas.

So this is what it feels like to watch your destiny unfold. While my angel never explicitly said “Fuck [my baby-hating ex-best friend]! Wait till I bring you to Kirsten”, I think she is responsible for all of this. I don’t know how else I can explain how someone who hates the phone, is afraid of and/or dislikes most other mom interactions and has no time for new friends and is REALLY NOT prone to stalking usually – really! – could become so smitten by another mother in 5 minutes over the phone. Smitten enough to stalk and pursue over the course of 4 years. And then write about it exhaustively on her anonymous little blog.

So…to net it out, Kirsten and I both admitted our love for one another and we’ve decided to be “in a relationship”. Since we both have common aversions to the phone and for planning stuff in advance and formal gatherings, we decided we’ll do lunch as often as we can and keep the conversation going. As much as introverted working moms can. And I promise to send you a postcard from Disney World when we get there!

I’m kind of psychic. Seriously. Unfortunately it isn’t the kind of psychic where I can win the lottery, but I don’t feel that bad because nobody is that kind of psychic, or else they’d keep winning the lottery and laugh at all of the rest of us until Congress passed a law about psychics not being allowed to play and then whoever won from then on would be accused of being psychic and burned at the stake or publicly hung, and it would be bad, real bad (Michael Jackson) so it’s really for the best that I’m not that kind of psychic.

I’m also not the kind of psychic like John Edward or those women on psychic detectives, although I totally wish I was. I would creep people out all the time by proclaiming that I hear and see dead people, in a really creepy voice that would give people the shivers and not want to be my friend. But I think I could do a really good job just making vague references to “bodies of water” or “the number seven” or ” a grove of trees” or “the letter ‘M'”, which I think pretty much sums up what psychics tell detectives. Next time someone goes missing, just tell people you got this weird vision of “a body of water, by a road, and a grove of trees” and that you sense “something about the head…” because I mean, nobody dies from a kick in the shin. If you get killed, 90% of the time, it involves some type of bad thing happening on or near your head area and you can bet your ass your body is going to be hidden either by a road, by some trees, or by a body of water. Unless you get an asshole that buries your body in their basement. Then the psychics will never find you. But that won’t stop them from watching Sesame Street that day and taking both the number and the letter of the day as psychic clues into your disappearance. But I didn’t say all this to freak you out. This isn’t me as a psychic telling you that you’re going to die. As we’ve covered, I’m not that kind of psychic. I won’t be able to find you – most especially if you’re in somebody’s basement. Although you might have cancer, so I would check for that. We all have to get it at some point. I’ve already had my turn, so it might be yours this time.

I’m not a pet psychic either. If I were, I never would have let my damn dog outside to get sprayed by some fuckin’ punk-ass skunk the other day. That sucks. It would be cool though if I could make animals spontaneously combust with my thoughts alone. I mean, I would never do it to a good animal, but if a bear started eating my face at some point, I would totally do it then. And I think I would be justified. Maybe. I wouldn’t if it were a baby Grizzly eating my face though. Because babies don’t really know any better – but I would certainly be judging that baby’s mother as it sunk its teeth into my skull. “This baby Grizzly’s never learned to use his words! Where the fuck is this baby’s mother? I’m going get animal control all up in her bidness”.

Finally, I am not a psychic that gets paid to read your palm or your tarot cards, but I am certainly open to the possibility of that one day. It would be so fun to mess with people. Except I’m actually a really nice person deep down so I would just tell people nice stuff about their futures, unless I got the sixth sense that they were an asshole. Then I would probably tell them they only had a couple of weeks to live, so they could repent and be nice to people so they wouldn’t go to hell. I would be doing others a favor that way, so either way I help humanity. Which is kind of like my life’s mandate. I should also note that there is nothing I like doing better than going to psychics. I don’t go out of my way or anything, but if I walk by a place that says “Psychic Reading – $5” and I have 20 minutes to burn, you can bet your ass I’ll go in there and hear what she has to say. Then I go home and write everything down. One day I’ll have to fish those journals out. But the stuff I remember has all come true, so some people really are psychics. Kind of. Or really good guessers.

(Sorry – my ADD asked me to add this: One of my life’s biggest let downs thus far is that I’ve never been thrown a surprise party or been invited to a party that had a psychic there to tell everyone their fortunes. See, I’m not related to, nor do I hang out with people, who think that would be the best EVER. Except maybe half of the WINOS. But if anybody wants to know how I would like to spend my next birthday? A surprise psychic might be totally in order. We can both totally pretend that you didn’t get the idea from me and I’m totally surprised. But I guess the psychic will probably totally know and tell everybody.)

Okay, so what kind of psychic am I, you ask? Well, I’m the kind that hears a voice in my head once in a while about very important matters who is always right. Unfortunately for my earning power, this voice generally only tells me things about my life on a need-to-know basis, so I can’t really conjure it up for shits and giggles or financial gain. So I’m pretty useless as a psychic at a party or as your friend. But I like to think of my voice as an angel. Probably since I’m Catholic and we Catholics adore our angels. When I was little my mom told me everyone had a guardian angel and I would think about mine for hours. Mostly at bedtime. I wondered if my angel slept when I did or if she kept vigil all night long so no monster could kill me as I slept. I think it must be the latter, because obviously, a monster has never killed me in my sleep and I hold my guardian angel accountable for that. Because I’m sure there were many attempts, especially at ages 4 – 9. But in addition to saving my life countless times, she also tells me stuff.

But not at church. The first time was at a commando party, so I want to note that angels, even Catholic ones, hang out a commando parties, in case you were wondering. I want to clear that up right here, right now, because it needs to be said. So anyway, I’m at this party and my friend tells me that his new roommate graduated the same year I did from the same University and did I know him? He said his name but it wasn’t familiar, so then he pointed him out to me across the room. And then, right then, my angel spoke. “That’s your husband.” Whaaaaat? I’m at a commando party and on my way to getting liquored up and you’re telling me that guy across the room that I’ve never laid eyes on before is my husband? This wasn’t really the way had pictured this going down. I would have done more waxing if I’d have known. Next time, maybe you could give me a little advance notice. And by the way, has anybody informed him of this fact? (The answer to that question, I found out later, was a resounding “no”. He had to be stalked per the pursuit strategy outlined here). At least he was hot. I had that going for me. Our courtship was a saga worthy of a 4 part mini-series and I won’t go into it here, but suffice to say that it was not like we met and it was love at first sight. Or we met that night and then went out on a date right after that. No. Too many starts and stops and drunken oratories to count. There were many a day when I was like, “why the hell did my angel tell me that he was The One, when so clearly he is not?” But she was right, as she always is.

So then the next time my voice piped up, it was straight out of the New Testament. You know how an angel told Mary she was going to have a baby and she was like, “The fuck? I’m a virgin. And not married and I’m like 14”. I’m not sure what verse that is, but you know, look it up. Anyway, except for the part about being a virgin and not married and 14, that’s pretty much the same thing that happened to me. My angel told me the night my son was conceived that I was with child and it was a boy. But thankfully, she did not tell me to name him Jesus. That would have been totally awkward. Because people would call him “Hay-zeus” and I’d be like “No. Its pronounced “Gee-sis”, because it is God’s will”. And I just feel like he and I both would get our asses beat a lot for that. So luckily God did not want my son to get his ass beat. He wanted his kid to have a unique name, so there weren’t like Jesus L. and Jesus C. and Jesus Y.’s in all of Jesus’s classes. Which is totally cool with me. I get it. But now that I think of it I feel bad because probably Mary was thinking the same thing as I was – that she and her son were going to get jacked because of this whole arrangement — and sadly, she was right. That was kind of mean, God. Just sayin’. I constructively criticize Oprah too, so its not like I’m just picking on you.

So when BD and I were trying to conceive our second little person, it didn’t turn out to be as easy as the first time, which had many benefits, if you know what I’m saying, but at the time I wasn’t really focused on the benefits. Anyway, I became convinced that I was infertile and that we’d only have one kid if we didn’t go to all kinds of interesting lengths for number 2. But after months of trying, I was brushing my teeth one morning and then the angel said, clear as day, “There is another little guy on the way.” ( Oooh. Read that last sentence again, slowly. If I ever write a book of poems, I’m totally going to use that last sentence. People pretend like being a poet is hard. Not if you’re a great rhymer/psychic like me. Totally easy.) Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, so then my angel tells me I’m pregnant with another boy and by this time, I know my angel is not fucking with me, so I didn’t even have to take a pregnancy test. I just ran into BD and exclaimed, “My angel just said I’m pregnant with a boy!” and he kind of rolled his eyes because I don’t think he is completely convinced about my angel, but then again, he isn’t completely unconvinced, so I did have to prove it on a stick a week or so later when I could take the test, but she was right, yet again.

So I guess what I’m saying is that angels talk to me and tell me stuff. But only when its really important. And that makes me psychic, even if it isn’t the cool kind of psychic. I guess time will tell if I ever land a spot on “The Price is Right” whether my angel would think it was important enough to send me messages so I could yell, “$3.29, Bob!” with complete confidence. Because even if Bob Barker is a sexual predator, I still totally want to spin that wheel. Is that show even on anymore? I’ll have to ask the Internet becuase my angel isn’t answering that question.

I live to talk a lot about Oprah. You know that already if you’ve read anything I’ve ever written, or had a conversation with me that lasts over 3.4 minutes.

Hopefully, you have read Love’s Law #1. I have found further recent proof from one of my favorite blogs that I’m not the only one creeped out by mustaches. Meg from 2birds1blog wrote yesterday:

– Speaking of ridiculous things my sister has said, the other day we were discussing her intense love of mustaches when she mentioned how excited she was because it’s almost, “mustache season.” Apparently, mustache season begins after Labor Day ends, in a sort of reverse White Pants Rule kind of way. Or as Becca puts it, “When the white pants go away, the mustaches come out to play.”

I have never felt so completely molested by a sentence in my entire life.

Wowsers! Her sister is fucked up! But I see that the first thing that entered her mind was molestation. I’m not the only one.

Anyway, Oprah always asks people what they know for sure. From my last post I learned a few more things for sure:

John Mayer is indeed a douche. But we wouldn’t kick him out of bed.

Michael Jackson is asexual. Except it appears that Nel doesn’t think so and she was x5. However, now I know for sure I don’t want to know what MJ did or didn’t do with small children. Oprah didn’t even weigh in on this in her tribute to Michael Jackson. She is of zero value here.

If you marry a rock star or pro athlete (except Herschel Walker) you’re ridiculous if you think they aren’t going to screw around on you. Read: buy your famous husband condoms so you don’t get any of that nastiness coming home.

But I will admit to the world today that Oprah wrote down in the November 2008 “O” Magazine all the 20 things she knows for sure and I carry it around with me everywhere. (Stop it. At least I’m being honest).

So today I’ve decided to recreate that list as Love’s Law’s #2 – 21, but know that they are straight from Oprah’s mouth because I don’t want her to sue me because I don’t even have a lawyer. On second thought, if she sues me does that mean I get to see her in court? That might be so worth it.

Love’s Laws #2 -21 – What I believe (and you should too) since Oprah knows it for sure:

What you put out comes back all the time, no matter what.

You define your own life. Don’t let other people write your script.

Whatever someone did to you in the past has no power over the present. Only you give it power.

When people show you who they are, believe them the first time.

Worrying is wasted time. Use the same energy for doing something about whatever worries you.

What you believe has more power that what you dream or hope or wish for. You become what you believe.

If the only prayer you ever say is thank you, that will be enough.

The happiness you feel is in direct proportion to the love you give.

Failure is the sign post to turn you in another direction.

If you make a choice that goes against what everyone else thinks, the world will not fall apart.

Trust your instincts. Intuition doesn’t lie.

Love yourself and then learn to extend that love to others in every encounter.

Let passion drive your profession.

Find a way to get paid for doing what you love. Then every paycheck will be a bonus.

Love doesn’t hurt. It feels really good.

Every day brings a chance to start over.

Being a mother is the hardest job on earth. Women everywhere must declare it so.

Doubt means don’t. Don’t move. Don’t answer. Don’t rush forward.

When you don’t know what to do, get still. The answer will come.

“Trouble don’t last always” (A line from a Negro spiritual)

I believe in all of this, except for a caveat on #17. I think being skid row prostitute is the hardest job in the world. And after that, being a person who lives with me. And then maybe motherhood.

More Love’s Laws to come, including #22 – People living in Seattle are cool I guess, but unfortunately they are the worst looking population in the continental United States.

I promised myself that my blog wouldn’t be a cesspool of all of my sarcasm and judginess. Hence, this blog is not called Hate Mail To Self.

My issue is that I’m one of these people who is all about trying to find true meaning in life. So I read self-help books. Yes. I am a junkie. I like the books that are all about the Law of Attraction and a bunch of other Laws they make up. But these books are all about positive thinking and attracting what you want and all this stuff. I get all lathered up about it when I’m reading thinking ,”I will never have a bad thought again! Oh crap! I said “bad thought” when I really need to say “I will never not have a positive thought”” because you know, the Universe in its infinite wisdom will bring you whatever you think about, but it doesn’t understand the word “not”. Thats kind of weird. Because my two year old understands “not”, but the Universe doesn’t. So if I keep thinking “I SO do not want wine right now”, I will only attract wine. I SO do not want a glass of wine right now. Ah, I think I’ll let it breathe for a few minutes.

The other books I read are all about being “present”. Of course I had to read “A New Earth” because Oprah said to and that book was all about just don’t think anything really except about whether you can hear birds singing in the trees and focus on that. So I’m not sure whether I”m supposed to think all these good thoughts to attract good things or if I’m supposed to think about nothing so I can just live in the moment. But I’m sorry, most moments in my life are pretty damn boring — they aren’t really moments I want to live in. Not that I don’t want to live in them! Either way, I’m attracting “life” right now – do you see?

The Law of Attraction people have all these caveats. They tell you that everything in your life is directly brought to you because of your thoughts, so then naturally people are like, “I’ve been thinking about making as much money as God FOREVER, and I’m not rich”. And then these guys say, “Well, you really have to believe it”. And then you’re like “I BELIEVE it!” and they’re like “No you don’t. If you did you’d be rich. Like me.” Hm. Oh, and then there is the whole sickness argument. They say that if you get sick, if you get cancer, you actually attracted it to yourself. I thought if you smoked 2 packs a day or went tanning everyday that you attracted cancer.

But I can’t help but be the skeptic when they say stuff like when kids get cancer, it means their parents attracted it through their thoughts. Umm…that is crazy talk. I had cancer as a kid and I’m pretty sure my parents didn’t do it. But you know, I was young, so maybe they did and I just don’t remember. I sure hope they aren’t attracting cancer to me now. I really don’t have the time or the patience to kick its ass again. Besides, I have to save my energy for wading through bogus jobs on TheLadders.

Crap. Maybe just by saying that I’ve now attracted cancer to my kids. I’m the meanest mom ever. I think this glass of wine has done enough breathing. If you’ll excuse me…I have to start my healthy heart wellness program with my glass of shiraz.